


Join Me In Pieces

by ajeepandleather



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Demon Summoning, Derek Dies In The Hale Fire, Ghost Derek Hale, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Spells & Enchantments, Tattooed Stiles Stilinski, hedgewitch stiles, ouija board use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-05 22:45:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14628614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajeepandleather/pseuds/ajeepandleather
Summary: Stiles has been looking for a place to settle down and something draws him here, his magic humming with the thoughts of going.Beacon Hills.His magic says there's something there for him, who is he to deny it?*A.k.a - the ghost!Derek/Hedgewitch!Stiles AU someone asked for and I couldn't resist.





	1. Smudge Sticks & Renovations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheCookieOfDoom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCookieOfDoom/gifts).



> Thank you to the ever wonderful [Cookie](http://the-cookie-of-doom.tumblr.com) for this amazing prompt there you can find [here](http://the-cookie-of-doom.tumblr.com/post/172056441948/a-while-ago-i-had-an-idea-where-stiles-is-a). It's not quite what I think she was going for and not quite as dark as others could make it but I hope you all enjoy :)

Stiles is used to the whispers by now, the hushed tones as he walks past in the grocery store, the gas station, the library. It’s the hissing of wary mothers and bright eyed children as he makes his way through ordinary life looking anything but ordinary. He never resented the words spoken in secret, cherishes them as the awe, even if resistant, washes over him.

He draws his shoulders back, straightening out his spine and pointedly pushing up the sleeves to the dark overcoat he was wearing. He knows that this just puts more of the tattoos on display, know he’s only giving more oxygen to the fire in the townspeople around him but he would rather get it over with. Everytime he moved and landed somewhere new he had to go through the process of the residents of that city discovering his tattoos, and noting the piercings in his ears, the bar across his left eyebrow, the ring in his lip. They’ll start to recognize the geode he keeps on a long chain around his neck but they don’t ever see the Sheriff’s badge in his right hand pocket, always kept warm by the palm of his hand.

“Hi, I’m looking for fresh jasmine and white sage.” Stiles says, having entered the first flower shop he spots and finding the pay counter. He leans against it gratefully and rubs at his aching thigh. It was going to rain soon, a solid storm if the pain was accurately scaled to the way his scar was throbbing. The young woman startles from where she had been arranging a bouquet with headphones in. Her blue eyes widen when she spots the tattoos, the surprise not fading from her gaze as she looks him over. He watches calmly as she notes the (likely too) tight black jeans and loose, mildly tattered band-tee under his oversized denim jacket and grey hoodie.

“Oh, uh, yeah, we might have that in the back.” Stiles smiles but he knows from past experience it tends to come out more as a smirk that he never seems able to tamp down.

“I would love to see some if that’s alright.” The young woman nods and rushes off into a walk-in fridge and Stiles can’t quite contain his sigh. He’d prefer fresh stuff, that’s why he went here and not a grocery store, but beggars can’t be choosers. He’ll have to start the garden at the new house, pronto.

“This is the best of what we have in stock,” the woman says when she returns. She watches as he inspects the leaves of sage and the jasmine blooms. It isn’t great, but he already knew that. It will do well enough for the first cleansing of the house. He presses at one of the jasmine petals and notes the amount of oil that it produces.

“This will do.” Stiles nods and waits while the woman rings him up.

“Are you one of those witches?” She asks as he pulls his bags off the counter and starts to turn and leave. He turns back and sees she’s shrunk in on herself, shy and unsure. Usually the phrase is spat at him, sneered at like country folk do at “psychics” and the like. But not her, she looks curious under the shamed flush over her cheeks.

“Not quite, but close enough.” He smiles at her as her eyes widen again. He tilts his head, concentrates on the aura the girl gives off trying to see her through his peripheral and seeing if that can tell him anything. She radiates a healthy mix of the colors but there are distinct advantages to purple and blue, red making its way up. She sees more than she knows and says what she means.

“But white sage is for, like, purifying.” She pushes, growing bolder when he doesn’t dismiss her.

“It is. But you don’t need magic to use it.” He smiles, watching her shoulders drop in disappointment. He’s all the way to the door when he turns back for just one last thing, smile growing. “But it sure does help,” he adds, snapping his fingers, causing a shower of sparks. He has always loved the little gasp he hears as he leaves the shop.

***

He looks up at the house before him. It’s a three story, vaguely colonial style home, burnt to near extinction. All the windows are shattered and the third floor all but for a few remaining supporting pillars is gone. It would have been a grand place, tall and mighty, regal in its simple elegance. And he got it for less than a couple thousand dollars just to get it off the city’s hands. No one wants to deal with the burnt out shell where eight people died.

He takes his time looking around, mapping out the damage in his head and thinking of what he’ll need to do. He thinks the third floor is a bust, there’s too much that would have to happen to restore it and decides he’ll just knock down the remaining posts and turn the third floor into the roof. With a swipe of his hand, the pillars are tossed the the back of the property yard. That’s when he feels it.

He’s shoved by an invisible force, knocked flat on his ass as he shivers. He looks around with that “third eye” he checked the flower store clerk with and can’t make sense of the mess of an aura that surrounds the entire area. He stands slowly and sees a splotch of red pacing in front of him.

“So, there is someone still here.” He mutters. He climbs to his feet and readjusts how his satchel sits on his shoulder. He pulls out the white sage and some of his jasmine. He holds it in his palm and whispers in Celtic, watching as the flower and herb dry before his eyes. He feels eyes on him, watching warily but the anger still resonates. He pulls the pure cotton twine from his bag and deftly wraps the newly dried plants until he’s satisfied with his smudge stick.

He walks towards the house and pulls the lighter from one of his jacket pockets. He lights one end of the smudge stick before walking up the porch steps. He’s slammed with emotion the moment his hand makes contact with the front door. It’s agonized screams that slam through his skull and the smoke like acid in his lungs, he drops to his knees, clutching his smudge stick like the lifeline it is and does his best to hold on until the wave of terror and pain passes.

Swallowing thickly, he brings himself to stand on wobbly knees. He holds the smudge stick in front of him as he pushes open the door, brandishing it like a sword as he enters. He feels it again, this time it yanks him back by the collar of his shirt and he skids across the rough wood floor. He presses forward when the feeling relents and moves deeper into the house.

The tugging stops and he stumbles at how abruptly he’s released. He looks around, warily, trying to see with his peripheral vision, knowing that you could never see the Other Side head on. He spots the movement to his right, a darting flash of something smoke-like that he side steps, back bumping into a staircase, lined with an intricately carved banister. And a good thing he did move, one of the doors, mostly glass leading to a parlor of sorts is knocked over and lands where he was previously standing.

“Alright, asshole, we’re going with the ‘murder the new occupant’ route. Fine.” Stiles squares up his shoulders and starts to move with intent. He still holds the sage, swinging it around in graceful arcs as he passes through the halls, entering rooms with it and feeling the energy be cleansed as he moves. He also rummages in his satchel, trusting his sense of feel to find what he’s looking for while keeping an eye on his surroundings. He really doesn’t want to be a Stiles Pancake under the next thing Ghostie decides to push over.

He smiles in victory when his hand curls around the hex bag he had made before coming. He knew the house had a history, knew that it was dark and full of death. He was warned by the county real estate agent that the house had had “strange occurrences” happen to those who got too close, heard from a local man running an old repair shop that the house felt like sacred ground trampled by Satan himself. So, Stiles did what he did best - he prepared.

He pulls out the woven sack, made of rough burlap he had spent an hour weaving as he whispered Celtic blessings over it. Inside he had carefully picked various items for this very purpose. He knew that horrible things had happened and whatever was left would not be happy about his arrival, changing the place to his liking. He had added a three inch rod of iron for strength against the undead and protection, a skeleton key he had owned for several years carrying his essence to unlock the hidden things in the house, and paper with sigils of protection and banishment etched in ash and animal blood.

He places the bag on the staircase, as close to the center of the house as he can manage, chanting as he continues, pulling out two more bags. He tosses one down the stairwell leading to the basement, unwilling to actually go down to the room. It’s where most of the family died, trapped and helpless and Stiles knows, without a doubt, he would die today if he attempted the descent.

He continues to walk around the burnt out shell of a house and home, waving his sage and muttering under his breath. He isn’t attacked as he proceeds up the stairs and thanks the hex bags for doing their jobs, but he feels the presence of another. He’s not alone.

His shoulders slump when he finally enters the last room and extinguishes the smudge stick in the mortar from his bag. He leans against a wall and slides down to sit and put his forehead on his knees. Purification wasn’t all that hard of a ritual for someone as powerful as Stiles, but he was still shaken up from the flood of emotion dumped on him and his brush with death under the glass door.

There’s a loud thump across the room that makes Stiles snap his head up so fast he may need to worry about chiropractic care. He scans the area in front of him and notes the wooden slat that’s fallen from the exposed inner wall across from where he’s sitting. The wood falls just short of where his feet are and he glares at it because it may not matter all that much but he refuses to glare into open space and look like a dumbass to this dickwad of a ghost.

“Yeah, nice to meet you, too, asshole.” He takes a deep breath and starts thinking of the routine of cleansing and banishing rituals he can use while he finds a way to get rid of his supernatural pest. He was safe, for now, but this was his home now and he wouldn’t be run off so easily. He didn’t have anything else left.

***

Stiles spends the night after his first sage burning in a motel just outside the Preserve that he now calls home. Typically he likes to stake his claim in the haunted places he stops to live in, not willing to let whatever spirits lie there think they’ve won. But the old Hale house isn’t just any haunting. He can feel it in his bones that there’s something different here and he takes the necessary precautions.

He arrives early the next morning, wearing dark wash jeans and a ratty t-shirt with a faded logo of Space Invaders, a videogame his dad used to play with him in the bowling alley arcade. It’s warm outside and the air is thickening with a bearable amount of humidity but Stiles still sighs. He stands at the edge of the property line, standing in a gap in the fencing that’s been overtaken by grass and tree roots with no one to maintain it. The house in front of him he surveys the area and thinks, not for the first time, that this might not be worth the trouble. He could have settled anywhere, could have chosen any foreclosed house in the United States to set up shop once and for all. This wasn’t even the cheapest or the best offer he had seen but something had drawn him to the land and he wasn’t one to ignore his instincts.

He was starting to think his instincts were complete dicks when one of the railing pieces of the front steps, broken off and previously dormant on the ground, flies through the air like a javelin. He doges just moments before it manages to bury itself in the bark of the tree his chest was previously in front of. The hex bag in his back pocket pulses with alarm. He seethes as the railing post twangs into stillness and his fists clench.

“Alright, this is going to stop or I swear to the goddamn moon I will banish you to the darkest corner of Hell!” Stiles shouts into the open garden, noting the dahlias and bluebells overgrown and pouring out of decrepit flower boxes. “I know you don’t want me here and here’s news for you, the feeling’s mutual.” He stomps forward, now only ten feet from the porch and pulls the hex bag out of his pocket and yanks the string over his head so it thumps against his chest. There’s crystals in his pocket, poking uncomfortably in his thigh and he takes the baggie of salt out of his other back pocket and does a pretty messy job of pouring it around his feet in a circle.

“Here’s how this is going to go - I am going to tear down the too-damaged-to-repair parts of this house and you are gonna do all you want to stop me.” He looks up from his salt line and takes a steadying breath. “I know this was once your home but it’s mine now.”

Without anything else to say he waves his hands, feels the resistance in his fingers as the wood siding of the house groans. The wall he tugs on is more than halfway gone already, what isn’t burned destroyed from years of weather. He pulls and pulls and nearly falls on his ass when another piece of wood flies at his face. It falls limply when it hits the salt line, clattering to the ground.

“That’s right, salt lines keep out ghosts and negative fucking intent,” he grunts as he pushes one last time, taking the wall down. He feels something drop from his back. It’s a strange feeling of relief and a sudden lack of tension. In his heart he knows that the ghost has given up. For now.

***

He comes back to the house that night, after driving into town and picking up his things from his motel room, checking out and picking up some take-out on the way. He arrives and silently makes his way up the porch steps and into the house. He isn’t proud to say he flinches when he places his hand on the door knob, ready for another emotional attack but shakes the fear from his shoulders when it doesn’t come.

He pads through the house on near silent feet, save the rustle of the take-out bag in his hand. He passes the living room, side wall torn down that morning and go straight to the kitchen. He sits at a breakfast nook, the table charred but steady and he pulls out his dinner as he sits down. He makes a mental checklist as he shovels pad thai into his mouth. He needs all new appliances and counters but the cabinets look salvageable. The living room will need that wall replaced and some new flooring. The other walls look decent and he could probably get away with some patchwork. The stairs will need a quite a few steps replaced but he likes the look of them and wants to do his best to keep them intact.

A shiver runs down his spine as the temperature of the room drops unnaturally.

“Welcome to the party.” Stiles grumbles, taking another bite of pad thai. He had placed wards up before leaving earlier and he could feel them pulse under his skin like a second heartbeat. He knew a spiritual presence was still here, that the white sage and hex bags hadn’t banished everything from the home. It was likely whoever this was had been tied to the house and was lingering rather than moving on like they should.

There are few things that do that, that could also resist the push of cleansing rituals. He has yet to rule it out completely but the figure that he suspects is sitting next to him doesn’t feel malicious enough to be a poltergeist. The table rocks precariously but Stiles just sighs and holds his plate up so it doesn’t fall off the edge.

“I know you’re mad at me but I’m not apologizing. This is my house now, I’m going to fix it so I can actually live here.” Stiles scrubs a hand over his face, “And you know, you kinda tried to impale me twice.” This time the wall rattles and Stiles is strangely reminded of someone slapping their hand against a wall. “Looks like we’re roommates until I can figure out how to send you on your way.” And just like that the room is suddenly warm, heated air pressing against his skin and he’s no longer able to see his breath.


	2. Ouija Boards & Azazel

Stiles has always hated doing this, could never quite get over the itching feeling under his skin. He pulled the antique wooden board from the bubble wrap he had packed it in years ago and hoped to never have to undo. His mind can’t help but flick back to four years ago, thrown back into the past with the feel of splintering, harsh wood under the pads of his fingers. He squeezes his eyes shut, hears the protesting groan from the ouija board in his white knuckled grip but it was in vain. 

 

He was barely nineteen and alone. The house was foreclosed and Stiles was crying in the livingroom. He just needed a little more guidance, he deserved one or two last pieces of advice in the most basic of compensation for all the years to have it ripped from him. 

 

He remembers the 10-65 crackling over the radio on his father’s desk as they sat and ate lunch on an easy Thursday afternoon. He watched his dad hurry out of the station and lead another squad car toward downtown. He sat in charged anxiety, as he always did, looking down at his lap and reminds himself of the wards, the crystals, the hex bags and charmed talismans. All the ways he prepared for these dangers. All the ways he failed. 

 

He had been desperate that night. Unsure how he was supposed to proceed when it sounded like he was losing everything - the house where he grew up, the only place he knew his mom, the last place he would ever find his dad. He graduated high school, but he couldn’t maintain the house from a college far away. His only other family being distant cousins in Poland and he didn’t know where to turn. He just wanted to be pointed in the right direction by his dad. 

 

It was a disaster, a horrible, crushing disaster. He had found the board in the attic amongst the other things his mother had stored before her passing, instructing his father to pass it down when he turned eighteen. He had pushed the furniture around in the livingroom so he could kneel before the coffee table, shaking hands on the cold marble planchette. He doesn’t remember many details, but he knows that he still has the silvery scars on his thigh that refuse to fade and ache when it rains. 

 

He shakes off the memories and forces himself to be in this moment. He was stronger now, more capable in his abilities and this wasn’t personal. He gets up from his knees and goes to the parlor room, the temperature drops and he knows that his ghost “friend” is with him. 

 

“I don’t know if you know what this is. If you do just bear with me.” Stiles sets the board down on the coffee table he had brought with him from his last place in Oregon and keeps the planchette in his firm grasp until he’s ready. “I want to talk to you. Somehow you resisted the hex bags, the wards, the cleansings, and I want to know why. I’m not here to hurt you. I want to help.” There are still a few shutters, barely hanging onto window frames and Stiles sighs as they rattle without a single gust of wind. He pulls out a recorder, a nice one with a good microphone and presses record. 

 

“Here goes nothing, I guess.” He drops to his knees in front of the ouija board and places the planchette gently on the wood. He already feels the tug on his fingertips and a hot rush of resentment and anger wash through him. Prepared for the emotional assault this time around, Stiles takes a steadying breath and tries his best to relax. 

 

“I already know you’re here, so tell me, are you willing to talk?” Stiles sits and waits, knows that even with all the ruckus the spirit has been causing him so far, it wasn’t guaranteed the spirit would be able to communicate this way. The person was likely deeply tied to the house and therefore had a better grip on it but the board was Stiles’ and may prove to be a challenge. It’s been an entire 5 minutes of waiting when he feels it. The planchette scrapes across the wood slowly, in awkward little jolts until it’s resting over the “yes” in the top left corner. 

 

“Okay, cool,” Stiles breathes a bit in relief. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. Maybe he had finally found a spirit that  _ wanted _ to be helped. ”What’s your name?” It was a painstakingly slow process but eventually he had the name  _ D-E-R-E-K-H-A-L-E _ spelled out before him. 

 

“Derek Hale, okay, that makes some sense. This was Hale manor.”

 

“Alright, so one of the children?” He received a confirmative. He nodded his head, the information coming back to him from his research. The Hales had five children and he vaguely remembers reading about Derek in one or two of Beacon Hills archived newspapers. He was one of the middle children, a basketball player at the high school. 

 

“Are you the only one here?” Stiles asks, tentative and soft. The planchette shook as it made a small backwards movement just to push back forward over the yes. 

 

“I’m so sorry.” Stiles breathes out the words and feels the shiver down his spine, like being stroked with a hand of ice. It’s a sensitive moment and Stiles knows that this is thin ice he’s threading on, risking the wrath of a spirit that has every reason to lash out. All of the attacks make sense now though, at least there’s that. 

 

“I want to help you,” Stiles announces and feels the cold impression of a hand retreat like he had physically pushed it away. “You deserve to move on, Derek. You’re stuck here and I just -” 

 

_ CRASH! _

 

Stiles whips around and find the glass panelled door that hadn’t fallen on him the first time has been ripped from its hinges and lies shattered on the ground behind the couch. Stiles feels the adrenaline coursing through him and does his best to keep the fear at bay but ghosts have never been his favorite and this one hasn’t exactly shown himself to be friendly.

 

“Derek, why don’t you want to leave?” Stiles whispers into the room, throat tight and listening to the rattle of the shutters. “You’re suffering here, you should get to be with your family-” The ouija board flies across the room and the sound of it cracking against the wall is like a thunderclap through the house. The house groans and suddenly Stiles is curled up on the couch, hot bolts of anger flash through him, the rage and the pain and it all just  _ hurts _ . He tries to breathe, to push through but all that does is remind him that he’s alive and alive hurts, it hurts so bad. He screams, hands over his ears and throat tearing with the sound. 

 

***

 

Stiles wakes up on the couch, muscles spasming painfully from being so tightly clenched. He rolls onto his back and stretches out his legs, staring at the ceiling. Derek doesn’t want his help, that much was clear. 

 

He wasn’t sure if it was Derek’s intent, didn’t know if he even knew it was possible but anger and pain wasn’t all Stiles could feel from the whiplash of emotions he had been handed. He felt the self loathing. The wolf pacing in his chest, howling in fear and mourning. He saw the flashes of flames and the house crumble around him, felt the despair as his family was killed but that wasn’t all. He saw the woman. 

 

She was gorgeous in a feral sort of way. Wild and dangerous and everything Derek had felt he needed. He saw her smile, sharp and venomous, but felt the way she stroked down his arm. The touch felt vile now, like poison being dripped down the skin, making its way to the open wound. Stiles didn’t know how he knew, but he felt it deep in his bones that she was the one who buried Derek’s world in ash. 

 

Derek didn’t want his help, he believes he deserves every moment he passes amongst the ruins of his family and home. Derek has resigned himself to this hell.

 

Stiles was out for blood.

 

***

 

Stiles refused to do this on the Hale property, wouldn’t dare be so cruel as to subject Derek to that. He had enough pain to last a lifetime and then some, Stiles would be damned if he added to the burden. So he finds a place deep in the woods, past where he can feel the boundaries of Hale land. He knew now what the Hales were, could feel the pull of the moon over the land and the echo of howls through the trees. 

 

He looks up at the sky and squints a bit at how bright the moon is in comparison to the darkened forest around him. He finds the clearing where the maps had indicated, still open and with a clear view of the sky. He sets about clearing away the fallen leaves, using a large branch to do the brunt of the work and eventually going to his hands and knees to get to the forest floor. He takes his time with the silver dagger, carving the sigil into the ground, making the lines clear and well defined.

 

He takes his time pulling the white wax candles from his bag and lighting them at the tips of the sigil, watching in satisfaction as the flames catch and burn quietly, casting an eerie glow on the clearing. Next is the mortar and pestle, placing it in the middle of the candles’ formation and adding the ingredients he prepared earlier that day. He lets himself become a little lost in the process of crushing the dried herbs into a fine dust, feels an odd sort of peace while the stone instruments grind together. He sets the bowl aside and brings back the dagger, as quick and efficient as he can he slices his palm and watches the blood drip into the bowl. 

 

He stands, stepping back leaning down to light the bowl on fire before stepping just a little further away. The flame instantly takes and flares an unearthly blue within it’s containment. All that’s left to do is recite the summoning spell but Stiles lets himself stare at the fire for a moment longer, takes a deep breath and release the last few nerves rattling around inside him. Summoning demons wasn’t exactly an everyday occurance. 

 

“Attenrobendum eos, ad consiendrum, ad ligandum eos, potiter et solvendum, et ad, congregontum eos, 'coram me.” The words sound harsh and slick all at once, dripping from his tongue distastefully and unsettling the cool night air around him. Azazel, never one for theatrics, appears before him with his arms crossed and chin tilted up. The air of the clearing is instantly tainted with sulfur.

 

“Hedgewitch.” The title is practically spat and Stiles keeps himself from making a face. 

 

“Azazel,” He responds, dipping into a bow. It’s ridiculous and an entirely outdated gesture but Stiles knows better than to get nitpicky with demons. 

 

“Why have you summoned me, child?”

 

“I request information.”

 

“And what do you offer?” The demon’s voice is smooth, a reflection of his vessel, just like his handsome face. Blue eyes made fierce by hellfire and a smile too wicked to believe is sincere. 

 

“The warmth of aiding a simple hedgewitch in his journey of the dark and dangerous art of magic.” Stiles tells him, keeping eye contact as long as he can before the images they bear become too much for him to handle. Looking into a demon’s eyes is a glimpse into Hell itself. 

 

“Do you think you’re clever, child? That snark will get you far with a prince of Hell?” Stiles swallows back the instinctual retort. There may be a sigil keeping Azazel in place but he knew better to test his luck. 

 

“I apologize, but I am unsure of what I could offer that you could possibly be in want of.”

 

“Pain, child, I want the pain.” He leans forward, as far as the sigil will allow him to emphasize his following words. “I feel it leaking over the borders of the land as it seeps like poison through this forest. The pain of life cut short, torn from the face of the earth. Let me have it.” The last few words are a snarl that Stiles barely stops himself from flinching at. Despite popular belief he has self preservation instinct, he often ignores them though.

 

“How would you take it?” 

 

“By inflicting it, of course.” Azazel smiles and Stiles feels his blood run cold. He swallows thickly and shuts his eyes for a moment blocking it all out. The rotten eggs smell persists, it permeates and presses against his lungs but he ignores it all while standing and making his decision, it’s not one to make lightly. 

 

“If I conduct the pain to you, do you agree to give me the information I want? Truthfully and in full.” Stiles opens his eyes and this time, doesn’t let his gaze wander but lets it bore into the demon. Azazel narrows his eyes and considers, he likely didn’t believe Stiles would agree. 

 

“It means that much to you?” 

 

“Yes.”

 

“So be it, hedgewitch. What do you want to know?”

 

“Tell me about the Hales.”

 

***

The story is a lot of what he already knows - Talia was alpha, she led a respectable pack and ruled the land justly. They were a beloved family in Beacon Hills, prominent if private to their personal lives. 

 

It’s Derek that he wanted the details for. He was so young, so confused and hurt and falling apart at the seams. Stiles cried when he watched Derek’s eyes turn blue, cried for the loss of innocence. His heart ached as he watched him struggle with it, withdrawing from his family and friends. 

 

That’s when Kate arrived. She swooped in like a vulture and tore the boy apart from the inside. Lies and slander against what ‘love’ means, blasphemy to trust. Stiles hadn’t cried this hard since his father died. 

 

He watched the fire burn, saw Kate standing at the edge of the property after closing the mountain ash circle and smile at her work. He listened to the screams, the howls. No one survived.

 

***

 

“I’ve seen people go insane when doing this, good luck.”

 

If Stiles had believed what Derek had passed on to him was bad, it’s nothing like the feeling that courses through him now. What Derek had shown him was pain, filtered through anger and the self hatred that he had imposed on himself. What Stiles felt now was unadulterated agony. 

 

He falls to his knees and feel the anguish was through him like fire in his veins. He remembers losing his mother, the wound of losing his father so soon after still fresh in his heart but it multiplies tenfold. But it isn’t just the loss of family and love but he feels the way the trees sway with sorrow. It’s the way the land is scarred with the burning sorrow of losing its wolves, a land without its guardians. 

 

He can’t cry and the scream is trapped in his throat but he feels all of it like physical wounds. 

 

“You’re a brave little human.” He hears Azazel’s voice distantly while he pukes on the ground, body trembling like a leaf. “You must care about him very much. But I suppose that’s not hard to do when you feel their pain as it is, know their darkest of hearts.” And with that the demon is gone. 

 

When Stiles can finally stand, he does so on coltish legs and goes about packing his things slowly. He kicks at the sigil in the dirt and puts away his candles and pestle and mortar after dumping the bowl of its contents. He walks back to the Hale house and doesn’t stop to take off his shoes at the door, barely registers the semi-corporeal form in the corner of the living room. Just heads to his room and lies down. 

 

***

 

“Where did you go?” 

 

“Fuckin-” Stiles tumbles out of bed in a heap, nearly strangled by his sheets as he wrestles his way out of them. He peeks over his bed to look in the direction of the voice but finds nothing. Maybe he dreamt -

 

“How you’ve survived this long -” Stiles yelps and flips around, falling on his ass (luckily  not a far drop from where he had been on his knees) “I’ll never understand.” The voice continues without pause, sounding just as unruffled as the  _ thing _ it’s attached to looks. 

 

“You’re a ghost.” Stiles says, pushed back as far as he can be against his bed frame, wide-eyed and incapable of looking away from where the wisps of a human shape are in front of him. 

 

“Really? I hadn’t noticed when I passed through the wall to get in here.” The snark is entirely unnecessary but there it is.

 

“Derek?” Stiles knows he’ll probably be mocked for being obtuse but he really can’t believe it. He’s seen the pictures in the newspapers and a few on file from delinquent arrests for simple things like noise complaints and underage drinking. But this is Derek, not quite  _ alive and in the flesh _ , but animated and scowling. 

 

“No, Queen Elizabeth.” 

 

“Hey, you take that back, you’ll jinx her.” Stiles sasses back, pushing up so he can sit on the edge of his bed. 

 

“Are you done staring?”

 

“Are you done being so damn grumpy? It’s not everyday you meet a ghost.” Stiles crosses his arms over his, uh naked chest before casually standing to go grab a shirt.

 

“You’re a witch that bought a haunted house, this isn’t normal?”

 

“ _ Hedge _ witch,” Stiles emphasizes through the cotton of his shirt, tugging it over his head gracelessly. 

 

“Whatever.”

 

“And no, this isn’t normal. You’re the second ghost I’ve ever met.”

 

“Who was the first?” Stiles feels all the muscles in his back tense, a flash of phantom pain flares in his thigh but he shakes it loose. 

 

“How did you take on a corporeal form?” He turns back to Derek and takes in his ratty t-shirt and jeans, bare feet and muscled everything. The way he shrugs makes his arms flex where they’re crossed over his chest and draws his attention to his strong looking shoulder. 

 

“I don’t know, I thought you did something.”

 

“You’re a lot less violent like this, did you notice?” 

 

“I could throw something at your head again.”

 

“No repeats of the railing incident!” Stiles shouts as he leaves the room and heads downstairs for the kitchen. He lets himself freak out all the way down the stairs and as he pulls out the coffee fixings, but keeps it all to himself because the room has dropped in temperature and he knows Derek is loitering somewhere behind him. 

 

“I guess now that I can actually speak I don’t feel like I have to do anything … drastic.” Derek is somehow sitting at the breakfast nook Stiles had repaired the day before. He turns back to the coffee maker, wiping a few crumbs off the new counters and pulling out a pan for eggs. He had replaced all the appliances the week prior and was appreciating getting to actually cook rather than pb&j and take out all the time. 

 

“You mean like squash me under heavy objects or impale me on porch railings?”

 

“Yeah, that.” Derek isn’t looking too sure of himself when Stiles turns back around. Instead he’s looking down at his see-through hands, eyebrows furrowed and looking generally like a lost and dejected puppy.

 

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asks, not paying any mind to his freshly fixed up coffee. 

 

“I- I just-” Derek growls, breathe coming in short bursts like he’s straining for the words to come. “I don’t really, I don’t remember doing those things.” He looks up then, eyes wide and a bit wild. 

 

“Derek-”

 

“No, I remember it happening, I get that. But … I don’t remember  _ doing _ it. Stiles, I don’t know what happened.” Stiles sits down next to the ghost, careful not to bump into him. He really doesn’t like the feeling of passing through the deceased, it was like a shower of ice shards through your skin and muscles, an experience Stiles doesn’t want to repeat. 

 

“We’ll figure it out, Derek. I promise.” 

 

***

 

Stiles dug into his research that night. He doesn’t know where Derek went, but he wasn’t in the room anymore because Stiles had to shed his blanket from getting too warm. He’s been on his bed, hunched over his laptop for hours now looking into every piece of information he can find.

 

His mother had her contacts and many of them kept in touch with Stiles out of respect for his mother and now because they genuinely enjoy sharing information. He asks them and scrolls though various blogs and publishings his mother had listed as credible while he waits for their replies. There’s so much they didn’t know about ghosts and how they related to this side of the veil that is was nerve wracking. They knew they were the remnants of the deceased but it was never guaranteed what was keeping them here. Many would be tied down by unfinished business, a thirst for revenge, some simply didn’t know how to pass on. 

 

In (nearly) all cases the spirit would be tied down by an object, something near and dear to the deceased. Someone hoping to help release a ghost would have to destroy the object with salt and fire rendering their object useless. There were cases of objects being everything from a flask to an entire car. Occasionally, if a ghost was particularly disconnected from their humanity, it was required to salt and burn their remains to force a passing. 

 

But none of that explained Derek. Stiles had a sneaking suspicion that Derek’s object was the house, the last place he took breath, where his family was wiped from the earth is such a horrible way it made Stiles shiver. And it made some sense, with Derek becoming more corporeal as he continued to repair the house and build it back up. It was like Stiles handing bits and pieces of Derek back to him. 

 

And yet, it still didn’t explain the outbursts. None of it talked about the ghost becoming suddenly violent unless they were talking about a poltergeist and that made no sense because Derek could be kind and normal. He wasn’t malevolent or crazy, just lonely and confused. 

 

Stiles nearly spazzes off the bed when his computer dings with a notification - one of his contacts, Ari, replied to his email. 

 

_ Hi Stiles, _

 

_ It’s always nice to hear from you. I’m proud of you for choosing to settle down but it seems like quite the situation you have on your hands. I have some ideas of what you may be dealing with, but I wouldn’t put all my money on it. I’d have to be there to confirm it completely but this is the best I have to give you. _

 

_ If what you’re describing is what I think it is, Derek is losing his anchor. Let’s assume the house is what is keeping him here - the house had been untouched for years before you came and Derek was likely left mostly undisturbed. But now you’ve come and changed things. You’re tearing parts down, putting new things. This is no longer  _ Derek’s _ house.  _

 

_ The more of his anchor he loses the less control he will have. You’re likely to be creating one Hell of a poltergeist if you’re not careful. Either completely destroy the house and send Derek on his not-so-merry way or leave. Good luck with your ghost and don’t be a stranger.  _

 

_ Ari _

 

He sits back against his headboard, taking in the information and pondering what to do next. 

 

***

“What the fuck, Derek?” Stiles practically shouts, slamming his bowl of popcorn down onto the coffee table. He hears the asshole  _ snicker _ to the side where he’s decided to finally appear now that he’s fucked with the TV for the  _ fifth _ time today. 

 

“It was boring,” he says with a shrug, shit eating grin on full display. 

 

“It was a documentary on mantis shrimp, Derek! Those things are incredible. They have sixteen cones in their eyes, they can see like a bajillion more colors than we can.” Stiles waves his hands around for emphasis. 

 

“Two hours of shrimp is all I can handle,” Derek harrumphs, plopping down onto the couch. How he manages to sit on furniture and yet walk through walls Stiles isn’t sure but no really does so oh well. 

 

“They can punch through aquarium glass,” Stiles continues, trudging over to the TV to try and fix it. Electronics and the remnants of the dead don’t tend to get along and Derek uses it to his advantage. He just has to stick his hand into the screen and the thing fizzes into the snow-y disaster like it is now. “The water around them boils when they do it!” He adds indignantly when the TV takes more time to fix this round. 

 

Stiles finally gets the TV working again and turns around to get the remote and look for something more exciting when he spots Derek. He’s lounging on the couch and look oddly comfortable. It not for being able to see the pale paisley pattern of the couch underneath him, Stiles might mistake him for a guest in his house. Having a friend over. 

 

He shakes his head and goes back to his spot, pushing the ache from his heart. 

 

***

“That looks horrible,” Derek says over his shoulder, looking down at the pan Stiles has been working with for the last hour. “It doesn’t look edible, Stiles.”

 

“Well good thing you're not the one eating it,” Stiles quips back, faux cheerily. He pulls the pan off the burner and dumps what’s supposed to be chicken alfredo onto the plate he has laid out. He sees Derek make a face at the (admittedly gross) plop it makes as it lands. 

 

“You aren’t actually-”

 

“Yes, Derek. I’m going to eat the pasta I made over the past hour and used three pots to do so.” Stiles walks to the breakfast nook and is at ease with the chill that follows him. It’s almost a welcomed presence at this point. They snark while he eats, refusing to so much as wrinkle his nose at the bland noodles and mildly burnt sauce. Stiles is nearly finished when he starts to look at his phone more than he pays attention to Derek. 

 

CRASH!

 

He closes his eyes, sets his phone down on the table and takes a deep breath. 

  
“You did  _ not _ seriously just knock my plate off the table like an attention starved cat.” 


	3. Flames & Rituals

A few days later, after having to lie to Derek saying he hadn’t learned anything new, he left the house for a small trip. 

 

“I’ll be back later,” Stiles calls back into the house, not expecting Derek to appear before him as he tries to exit the door. 

 

“Where are you going.” 

 

“Question marks are valid forms of punctuation-”

 

“Where are you going, Stiles?” Derek huffs, putting extra emphasis on the question. 

 

“On a trip. I’ll be back by Tuesday.” Stiles sighs, adjusting the strap of his backpack. He and Derek had been talking the last few days and he couldn’t say he hated the company. Sure, Derek wasn’t as up to date in pop culture anymore but Stiles had already convinced him to watch the Avengers.

 

“That’s in three days. What are you doing that takes three days?” Derek knows how much Stiles hates walking through him and he uses it to his advantage, often to convince Stiles to change the TV channel before he leaves for his trips to sell his herbs at the local farmer’s market. 

 

“Errands, now move, Derek.” They stand there, eyes narrowed but Stiles isn’t going to reveal anything else and Derek seems to realize this. 

 

“Whatever.” He drifts through the wall to Stiles’ left and harrumphs his way upstairs. Stiles just takes a deep breath and walks out to his Jeep. 

 

The drive to Sacramento is long. Not so much time wise, but in how heavy each minute is knowing he’s getting closer and closer to what needs to be done. The farmlands and hills of grape vines flash by him while he drives on autopilot. The Jeep really shouldn’t be going for such long journey’s anymore but this needs to happen. 

 

Azazel had been confused as to why Stiles wanted the address, rather than just asking for the demon to do the job for him. But Stiles had insisted, said it was personal and it wasn’t quite a lie. Azazel hadn’t just shown him the lives of the Hales, he had walked him through their lives. It was like a movie where Stiles grew so attached to the characters he felt like he was one of them. What had ended them felt personal. 

 

Stiles pulls off at the exit he needs and makes his way through town. She lives to the east, in an apartment overlooking an orchard. He follows the map directions on his phone in silence, feels the quartz pulse in his pocket and the amulet on the rearview mirror is flashing in warning. It’s almost like having a couple of cats that sense Stiles growing anxiety and anger mixing in the air. 

 

His mind goes blank as he takes the elevator up to the fourth floor, his breathing has evened out by the time he makes it to her door and knocks. His magic pulses under his skin, ready. 

 

“Well, you certainly aren’t a girl sco-” Stiles lifts his hand and with a flash of light Kate Argent is thrown back and slams against the back of her leather couch. She hits with an “oomph” and is jumping back to her feet almost instantly like the hunter she’s trained to be. “You little-”

 

“Yeah, let’s not with the name calling.” Stiles snaps and her jaw is clicked shut like her teeth are magnets. She seems to growl at that and goes to charge him but it’s  _ so predictable _ . He rolls his eyes and with a flick of his wrist she’s flying through the air again, this time taking the TV off the wall with the impact. She slumps there momentarily, shaking her head to clear it. Stiles takes a strange satisfaction in the blood dripping from the side of her head where it hit the corner of the TV. He takes a moment to take in his surroundings. The apartment is sparsely furnished but mostly wood and fabric. Simple design in mostly black and white, tasteful even. 

 

“You killed the Hales.” Stiles announces without preamble. Crouching down in front of the woman when he gets to where she’s still sitting. He waves his hand and invisible straps hold her down. 

 

“Those beasts in Beacon Hills? Hell yes I did, I sent those bitches to Purga-” Stiles back hands her so hard she may have wanted to look into chiropractic care. But that wouldn’t matter for long. She looked enraged when her gaze whipped back around to him but he simply silenced her again. The confession was all he needed. 

 

“You burnt their house to the ground and trapped them with mountain ash. You seduced and raped a sixteen year-old boy. You killed eleven innocent people, including two humans and three children. You’re the monster here, Kate.” She sneers at him the best she can with her jaw essentially glued shut. 

 

Stiles stands and takes a moment to assess what he’s working with. Eventually he decides to haul her up by the arm and drag her to the couch. She puts up a decent fight but Stiles is strong enough to just toss her onto the couch and walk away. He distantly feels her tugging at her restraints as if her tethers were physical things in the back of his mind but he simply yanks them tighter until he hears her groan in pain in the other room. 

 

He comes back with a bowl and digs through his satchel. When he returns to the living room he places the bowl on the coffee table and starts putting different things in it. He ignores Kates incessant mumblings through his silencing charm while he adds sage, bones from a sparrow and a splash of castor oil. 

 

“Talia Hale would be 57 yesterday. She was on the fast track to becoming mayor if the people had their way. Her husband Andrew was going to get his residency to be a pediatrician. Peter Hale and his wife Linda would be celebrating their 15th anniversary and their daughter Lucy was planning to be a soccer star when she grew up according to her kindergarten project. The twins Alfie and Edward were going to be in a school play of Alice in Wonderland. Cora Hale was being scouted for volleyball and would be graduating college by now. Laura was already working on a Business degree with her girlfriend Lydia. Derek had been accepted into Harvard and Penn State for European History on early admission with how dedicated he was to his studies and with a scholarship for basketball.” Stiles recites all that he knows of the Hales’ future if they had been given the chance to live. His throat is closing and his eyes sting but he presses on. 

 

“You took away their future.” Stiles looks up at Kate, “Now I’m taking away yours.” Her eyes widen and he sees legitimate fear there and it stokes the flames in his chest. He stands and drops the lit match that he magicked into his hand into the bowl. Kate starts screeching, twisting and turning in her binds but to no avail. He steps back and watches the purple flames as they rise in the bowl. 

 

“You’re going to burn, Kate. This flame will scorch through here and leave nothing of you behind. You’re going to die slowly, feeling your nerve endings melt without the mercy of being knocked out by smoke inhalation.” Stiles walks backwards towards the front door and makes eye contact with the monster one last time. “Say hello to Azazel for me.”

 

***

 

“I know, baby, almost there.” Stiles tells Roscoe, patting the dash gently as they rumble down the road to the Hale house. The Jeep was carrying more than it had in ages and Stiles could feel the way the leaf springs were protesting the unusual amount of weight.

 

Stiles pulls into the driveway and lets out a breath of relief. He looks back at his cargo and and pats himself on the back for doing so well wrapping it up. The little china hutch had been a bitch to track down, having apparently changed several hands since old Mrs. Mayweather bought it from the Hale’s in what would be their last garage sale. Stiles had seen it in many of the memories Azazel had walked him through, standing proudly in the dining room with Talia’s mother’s fine china. Derek had accidentally broken a tea cup when he was seven and cried in the basement for hours before he fessed up to his worried mother. 

 

He hops out of Roscoe and makes his way to the house. He really hopes Derek likes his surprise. There is the chance he’ll hate it though, Stiles wonders as he unlocks the front door. Could be the next projectile in the grumpy ghost series. 

 

“Derek, I’m back!” The house stays silence and Stiles eyebrows draw together as he scans the area. He sends out a small pulse of magic, a quick check of the house and comes up with nothing out of the ordinary. He climbs the stairs quietly, heads to his room on near silent feet. He listens, ears practically ringing with the silence that he’s met with. Then he hears the creak of the faucet in the joined bathroom and sighs to himself.

 

“Derek, you know what happened last time with the flooding. I know I’m repairing stuff but I’m not-” Stiles enters the bathroom but doesn’t find Derek. Well, technically it’s Derek in front of him, vaguely corporeal and yet nothing of the Derek he knows. His stomach does a weird twisted jolt at the sight of Derek’s skin peeling from the flesh of his arms. There’s bone visible near his elbow, his jaw is charred deeply and Stiles can see the roots of his teeth. Entire patches of his hair are gone and his clothes are singed tatters. But Stiles doesn’t spend long caught on it because it’s not as disorienting as his eyes. The pale color he doesn’t know the true color of are now milky white and fucking  _ pissed _ . 

 

In the blink of an eye Derek is right in front of him and Stiles breath is caught in his throat. This isn’t Derek and his heart pounds not knowing what’s going on but knowing somewhere deep in him that it’s nothing good. In a flash there’s a ghostly hand around his throat, the ice shards seeming to pierce through the skin of his neck and freezing what little breath he had. He reaches up to scratch at the grip it’s no use. He’s shoved to the side and manhandled to the sink. 

 

It’s still running, the water flowing over onto the tile Stiles was going to replace next week. Despite Stiles still thrashing Derek doesn’t seem to struggle to press his face to the water, submerging him easily. Stiles fights and manages to get water up his nose, burning like fire and he wants to cough and hack but his face is practically smashed against the porcelain sink. He’s dying, the burning in his lungs too much to fight, the urge to just suck the water in is overwhelming. 

 

He digs in his pocket, fumbling and frantic but he finds it. Yanking the three inches of iron rebar from his jeans he thrusts it backwards into whatever part of Derek he can reach. The grip on his neck disappears almost instantly. Stiles throws his head up and back, coughing and gasping in turn, lungs screaming and his vision nearly black. He slides to the ground to sit with his back pressed to the cabinet, not caring about the water still pouring out of the sink basin as he gets his breath back. 

 

With a shuddering breath he pulls himself back up and tells himself it’s time. 

 

***

 

He lugs the china cabinet into the dining room, having made a new hex bag to wear as protection, fresh crystals in his pocket, throbbing like he needs anymore warning that shit is going down. It takes a lot of effort but he manages it, places it exactly where he had seen it in the visions Azazel had given him, let’s him take a moment when he’s satisfied with the placement. But he doesn’t rest for long, there’s ants under his skin and the entire house is freezing. The aura has exploded into a mess of color and it’s giving Stiles a headache. This is what Ari warned him about and now he has one last chance to fix it. 

 

He goes about grabbing his chalk, made of ground up sparrow bones and ash, drops to his knees to start drawing the sigils and the patterns for the best magical conduction. He tries to take his time but his hands are still shaking and he manages to snap two different pieces of chalk. His hair drips over the lines but he doesn’t have the patience to wait much longer and fix it. He’s losing Derek, he doesn’t have time to waste. 

 

The candles are a hassle, his fingers not cooperating when he tries to light the too short wicks but it works eventually. He scatters the petals of various flowers to represent the connectedness he desires, herbs to aide in binding and healing. Preservation and the continuation of emotion. He chants as he goes a simple incantation that beguiles its strength -

 

_ Tá an deireadh tagtha chugainn _

_ Ach níorbh fhéidir an t-anam dul _

_ Coinnigh gar dúinn _

_ Ceangail dúinn cad atá againn _

_ Ní fhéadfadh an domhan a bheith níos faide a thuilleadh _

_ Ach is mór dúinn an domhan _

_ Ó bandia _

_ Seo é a chloiseann tú _

 

He sits in the center of his largest sigil, surrounded by his candles, the scent of his flowers and herbs over taking anything else. He pulls out his pestle and mortar, taking deep albeit shaky breaths, feels the eyes on him but pays them no mind. He needs to focus. He drops a few flowers and herbs into the bowl, crushes them meticulously before pulling out his dagger. 

 

“Stiles.” The voice is gruff, distant and like it’s a million miles away. He looks over and sees Derek, a flickering image that oscillates between the Derek he’s grown begrudgingly fond of to the one who died with the taste of his family’s ashes on his tongue. “Don’t.” It’s obvious that the words are a struggle, that communication is failing him in this shattered state of his presence here without a proper anchor. 

 

“I’m not losing you, Derek.” Stiles tells him softly, holding onto the image of Derek laughing while they watch F.R.I.E.N.D.S and the Derek that sits and watches him tend to his flowers and was starting to tell him little bits and pieces of his life before he died. “Not you, too.” 

 

The cut doesn’t register as pain when he slices his palm open with the knife. Normally he might bitch about the hand having the most nerve endings and it being dumb to not just cut the top of your arm, but he’s too focused right now. Or, he’s too distracted. His hands are shaking and he’s stumbling through his incantation. He can feel Derek pushing at the salt circle. Whether his intent is malicious or not he can’t tell but the bowl in front of him is smoking and the candle flames are growing. 

 

***

 

The birds flee the trees when the bang sounds through the Preserve. The silence following it is eerie, a calm only achieved by the stillness of death. 

 

***

 

Stiles doesn’t know what wakes him, but his eyes flutter open and find the charred ceiling of the Hale house. He sits up and doesn’t seem to notice the lack of effort the move takes. He gets to his feet, looking around the room and noting the blown out candles and knocked over bowl of herbs. The china cabinet still stands tall and proud but he pays it no mind. He doesn’t care about the antique firewood if he didn’t complete the ritual. 

 

“Derek?”

 

He listens closely and follows the soft sobs that echo through the house. The sound leads him up stairs and into his room where he finds Derek in the corner, crying into his hands with his knees to his chest. 

 

_ He’s in full color _ . 

 

“Derek? I think it worked! I can see you better-” Derek’s head shoots up and gods his eyes are gorgeous, even puffy and red, the tears only magnifying the strange and intense color. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

 

“You’re- you’re dead, Stiles.” Stiles stares at him for a moment, blinks slowly and tries to comprehend what he’s heard. 

 

“But, but I’m right here. Derek, I-”

 

“There was a flash of light and you were on the ground next to the wall and,” his breath seems to catch in his throat, painful like the raw rims of his eyes. “I couldn’t see you breathing. Your lips turned blue, Stiles.” Derek stands slowly, stumbling a bit like his knees are weak. “I came up here days ago, after it happened. I couldn’t look at your body anymore.” 

 

“My- my body wasn’t there. I can’t- I’m not dead, Derek. I’m right here.” Derek is shaking his head pitifully but Stiles doesn’t stick around, he dashes back to the dining room and drops to his knees when he enters, covering his mouth and nose with his shirt as he gags. The stench isn’t the worst it could be but it isn’t pleasant and the warm summer air doesn’t help anything. He feels the haze of shock fall over him and his heart races with the impending panic that never seems to come. 

 

He’s just where Derek said he would be, against the far wall looking like a doll carelessly dropped to the side. His skin looked wax-like and hung almost loose on his bones. His eyes staring sightless at the bottom of the breakfast nook table. He scuttles backwards, uncoordinated and terrified, out of the room and collides with Derek. 

 

Derek. 

 

He turns around and clings to the man, the tears won’t come but as he climbs to his feet his fingers scramble against his t-shirt and when they finally manage to get a grip he refuses to let go. But Derek hugs him just as close, presses his face into his neck and shelters him from it all. He’s warm and his pulse thrums under his skin and Stiles didn’t realize how starved he had been for even simple touch before now. 

 

“I’m dead, Derek.” 

 

“You’re with me now.” It sounds like a promise. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so this is it. Thanks for sticking it out guys. Hope I didn't completely wreck you emotionally but you had to know this wasn't gonna be all puppies and rainbows ;) Hit me up in the comments or on my [Tumblr](http://ajeepandleather.tumblr.com)


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